


these accidents of faith

by mahariels (lovevigilantes)



Series: querido [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Relationship, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, feelings?? what feelings???, mentions of mahariel/tamlen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 07:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11249298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovevigilantes/pseuds/mahariels
Summary: For all his strengths, both real and exaggerated, Maroden is not a good liar.





	these accidents of faith

> _ Then try, try to come closer—  _
> 
> _ my wonderful and less than. _

— Mary Szybist, The Troubadours, Etc.

 

 

 

 

When his friends ask him why he chose to keep Zevran Arainai alive, even after the assassin laid himself bare and flippantly made his betrayal known, he tells them, "We need all the help we can get. Besides, how dangerous can he be?"

And contrary to popular belief, Maroden isn't an idiot. He knows that this is at least partly true—beggars can't be choosers, and with almost the entirety of the country against him, allies are in short supply. No one could possibly deny that. 

"Honestly," he insists at the sea of doubt that floods his friends’ faces. "Why else would I keep him around?"

_ I can think of a few uses for a handsome elf.   _

He can feel his face heat up. He turns away.

 

 

After leaving Kinloch Hold, he wanted nothing more than to keep moving towards Orzammar, much to the chagrin of the rest of the company. 

He saw their exhaustion. He saw it in the way their feet dragged and how their eyes remained perpetually downcast. And he would be a liar if he said he didn't feel it too—it had been cruel in a rather particular way to have his own wants dangled in front of his face ( _the Blight is over, you did it, you don't have to fight anymore, you don't have to fight_ ) only to wake up to proof that no such dream was possible. But Maroden is nothing if not stubborn, and if he had to drag his newfound companions forward to get anything done, well.

(If he had to push his body into a state of exhaustion to keep away nightmares as best as possible, if he had to rub his sore joints and quietly ask Wynne to heal the blisters that kept bubbling up on his heels nearly every night, if he had to wink and smile and bite his tongue at the concerned queries—if it was the only way to let himself forget his homesickness, his loneliness, the feeling of hopelessness, the nagging voice in his head taunting him, _you think you can do this, you really think you can do this, you idiot, you great idiot_ —)

Well, so be it. 

 

 

(There are worse fates, he reminds himself. 

The thought should be comforting. It isn't.)

 

 

For all his strengths, both real and exaggerated, Maroden is not a good liar.

In passing, of course, he can manage it. Most of the time, it's only a matter of avoiding the truth, feigning innocence until an escape route presents itself. He's even rather good at playing the fool, furrowing his brow and parting his lips _just_ so. But he lacks the creativity involved in outright lying. He remembers the lectures from his mother, the creases around her mouth that deepened when she tried to tell him that just because it’s the truth doesn’t mean you have to _say it_ like that, there’s a difference between being honest and being blunt, and that difference is cruelty, and sometimes you don’t have to mean to hurt to do it.

So for most of his life he hadn’t bothered attempting to lie, even if his honesty got him into trouble more often than not. But there hadn’t been a Blight to worry about back then, nor had the entire country believed him a traitor, nor had he been on the verge of death only to be sent away for a cure, or—

(A finger pressed against his lips. A voice, and the ghost of someone's breath in his ear, hot and foreign: You think we’d be able to run away together? A laugh. Words escaping breathlessly. Idiot. Blonde hair, blonde hair, blonde hair, shattered glass digging into the soles of his feet, damn the Warden, damn the Keeper and damn the shems that started this in the first place and—)

Simply put: things are different now. 

So he tries to lie and tries to believe it’s for the best. He shakes his head. He denies everything, does not give in to anything—not to his friends’ prying eyes, to the shades that haunt his dreams, to the dark thing fluttering in his chest.  We keep moving because we have to, he insists. I’m fine.

Just as well, Maroden is a terrible gambler; he has never been able to hold his cards close to his chest for too long. It was bound to happen—someone would see through his rashness, his borderline suicidal dedication to the task at hand. He assumed that Wynne knew, mostly because of how much she insisted on mothering him, pestering him about his impulsivity and his inattentiveness while soothing whatever bumps and bruises he’d managed to give himself that day, all the while murmuring some kind of lesson or another about responsibility. But she didn’t push. She never asked him to explain, so he didn’t. And he liked it that way.

 

 

Still—the assassin. 

Zevran. _Zev, to my friends_ , he’d said, warm accent curling around the r.

(Maroden’s mother had always told him he was a sucker for a pretty face and it’d be his undoing. As always, she’d been right.)

Ever since he joined Maroden’s ragtag group, he’s wormed his way into the nooks and crannies of their foundation and—much to the chagrin of many—made himself, to put it lightly, indispensable. No one denies that he can be heartless, dishonest, a cad at best. But there’s also no doubt that at this point, they would most likely perish without him.

Of course he’s dangerous—but thus far, he’s only showed his skills towards those outside the party. He does not throw himself into battle with the same brute aggression that the warriors do, nor does he spend much time positioning himself around the field like Leliana or the mages do, and Maroden finds it easy to forget about Zevran’s presence in combat. But it had always been that way with any of them—Maroden focuses almost solely on where the next arrow will land, where the weakest of them are placed so he can keep enemies off them while the stronger fighters attack at close range.

So when the odd bandit somehow flanks him, Maroden cannot figure out which is more horrifying: the fact that if the foe had succeeded, he would be dead; or—worse still—that Zevran stands there, wiping the sweat from his brow, accidentally smearing blood across it, smirking, before winking and dashing back into battle. (Bastard, Maroden calls out. You’re welcome, he responds.)

But it is Zevran’s knack for survival that truly sets him apart. He manages to thrive on bare minimum, never once complaining for lack of food or sleep, even though Maroden knows he must be exhausted. He has a habit of always finding (rather, stealing if not threatening merchants for) necessities that their meagre coin couldn’t afford. He somehow—somehow—boosts morale, even if it is only by way of giving Morrigan something to complain about, or giving Wynne an outlet for her lessons on morality.

And he does not pry when Maroden insists that they keep moving, or when he nearly collapses from exhaustion, or when he rushes out of sight every once in a while (when it all becomes too much, when they pass by places too familiar to be comfortable, when he realizes he's forgetting details of his previous life more as the days go by). Zevran doesn't hover, he doesn't give any reason to suggest that he pities him. But he makes Maroden laugh. He lets Maroden lean against him when his legs threaten to give out. He doesn't ask questions on days when Maroden is quiet. 

(Moreover, Zevran doesn't ask about Maroden's bindings, about his high voice and soft skin. And sure, no one in the party had been particularly pushy whereas that was concerned—still, Zevran's reaction was different: the assassin didn't seem confused, nor did he seem remotely shocked. What he did do was hold Maroden's hand, thank him for trusting him, and call him querido. The Warden did not ask what that word meant. Zevran's hand was warm; he didn't let go.)

Still, it all tastes sour on Maroden's tongue. He can’t make himself feign annoyance at the aid the assassin has given. And more than anything, he's grateful for the liveliness that has replaced the dull gloom borne from their experiences in the Fade. But he still resents Zevran, and guilt seeps into every fiber of his being for wont of reason.

 

 

Then it becomes clear with one single observance brought to light by Morrigan one night as she helped Maroden pitch his tent—a simple, offhand comment:

Zevran dotes on him.

_ Dotes. _

And Maroden, for lack of the emotional maturity to sort out his emotions and face them head-on, can barely stand it. 

It isn't as though Zevran makes a fuss about it, nor that he even does much by way of aforementioned doting. In fact, he seems to do the exact opposite. Maroden doesn't know if that should make him feel better.

(Strangely, it doesn't.)

Even when he’s rather forward—throwing his cloak over Maroden’s shoulders when he shivers, openly flirting with him at every opportunity, poking fun at Morrigan over her closeness to Maroden till Morrigan grew red-faced and spewed out insults usually reserved for Alistair and Alistair alone—it is done with a level of nonchalance that drives Maroden wild. As if it was common for him to find a Dalish Grey Warden and smile at him till the lad couldn’t meet his eyes anymore, and laugh and laugh, ah, querido, you are magnificent. As if it was familiar. As if it was inevitable.

The worst of it were the presents. Maroden's penchant for gift giving had become something of a joke to the party, who would ignore their polite attempts at refusal as he handed them yet another trinket or bauble or whatever else. He had made it clear that he expected nothing in return—that he didn't want anything in return, because really, he didn't know if he would live through this anyway, and all signs seemed to point towards his inevitable demise, so of course there was no point in giving him a single damn thing.

So of course, that didn't stop someone from leaving small tokens of affection in places were Maroden would happen to find them.

All the gifts Maroden found (wood-carved rings, notes with dirty poetry on them in curling script that made him giggle in spite of himself, extra portions of meals that happened to be left warm and ready in his tent) came unannounced. The Warden wouldn't have known they were from Zevran at all had Shale not complained in her usual brash manner one morning as they quietly ate breakfast. Why doesn't the painted elf just tell it? All the dancing and hiding is obscene. To which Wynne shushed the golem, pointedly avoiding Maroden's questioning gaze.

Still, neither the painted elf nor Maroden spoke of them. For the most part, Zevran didn’t even acknowledge that they existed, except in mentioning how “you’re glowing this morning, querido” (after Maroden had found a fresh bar of soap--expensive, smelling of pine--in a neat package under his pillow), or “has anyone ever told you how lovely your hair is?” (after a silver comb, real silver comb, had mysteriously appeared in his pack).

The rational, mature thing to do would be to confront him. Maroden knew this. He also doubted that Zevran would react truly negatively, even if it all meant nothing to him; after all, he's been nothing but brutally honest since they had met. Unless—unless— 

And there he was. Maroden looked up from the book Bodhan sold him earlier, something about creating potions or poisons or whatever, and immediately found himself locking eyes with the assassin from across the camp. He stood near Leliana, who spoke lowly to him with a smile on her face, but he didn’t look at her, even though he seemed to be responding in turn. No. Of course not.

He feels his face grow hot. Of course not. Instead, Zevran’s eyes wandered over Maroden casually, neither predatory nor cautious. Simply looking with the corners of his mouth slightly upturned, an eyebrow raised.

Talk to him. Right.

Maroden sticks his tongue out. Zevran laughs, the sound sharp and clear, before he winks. Winks.

“Bastard,” Maroden swears under his breath.

“A silver for your thoughts?”

Maroden almost falls off the log he’s perched on at the sound of Morrigan’s voice. He turned to the right, where she kneels on the grass, smirking at him. “How long have you been there?” he asks, slightly breathless.

“Quite a while, it’d seem,” she replies, looking down to inspect her grass-stained knees. It was always surprising, Maroden thought, how easy it was to forget that she was a creature of the wilderness just as he was—her poise made her seem above it. But there she is, kneeling in damp grass next to him, serpentine eyes twinkling as she meets his gaze.

“Well,” he says lamely, unsure as to her intentions. “Are you...alright?”

“As well as can be managed, I suppose,” she says, shrugging. “Now, were you planning on telling me about your feelings for the elf or was I supposed to guess?”

Leave it up to Morrigan to say it like that, he thinks. The shock on his face is genuine. “I—what?”

She rolls her eyes, but there is no real malice in her voice when she speaks again. “The assassin. The one who’s been making eyes at you longer than you’ve been making eyes at him. Really.” She scoffs. “A bit sickening.”

“I have,” Maroden says slowly, trying to pick his words wisely, “no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Ah, yes,” Morrigan muses. “Denial. Lovely.”

He shuts his book. “Is there a point to this?”

“Should there be?”

 

Maroden bites his tongue and sighs.

(He thinks of how easy it would be to love her—she was beautiful, of course, and even if their companions convinced themselves that she is cruel, he admires her practicality. And they had kissed, once, after he’d handed over her mother’s grimoire, and it had been nice enough, even if he had to stand on the tips of his toes in order to meet her lips—but the thought passes quickly.)

“It’s nothing,” he insists.

“I wonder how long you’ll be able to tell yourself that,” she says. “I thought it’d be a rather exciting prospect for you.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs loftily. "You would have never been happy remaining with your clan."

His stomach drops. "What does that have to do with anything? And—fuck, you don't know that."

“Don’t I?”

His face heats up again; he looks away. “Fuck off,” he snaps, and really, he meant for it to sound like a joke, like he was teasing, but holding his temper had never been his strong suit.

“I do not mean to be cruel,” she says (Creators, if he was anyone else he could pretend she doesn’t sound hurt). “If you would prefer—”

“You’re not,” Maroden interrupts. “You’re not cruel.”

It takes a few moments for her to respond. Almost as soon as he recognizes the surprise on her face her expression returns to its former state, somewhere between passive amusement and genuine irritation. “And you are avoiding the topic. No matter, I understand.”

“It’s just—” He pauses. “It’s complicated.”

She hums. “Of course it is.”

“You’re—well, you’re not wrong,” he says.

She does not push; neither does he. Maroden opens his book again and tries to read, but his eyes scan the pages blankly, and some part of him hisses a single word, over and over again: coward, coward, coward, coward—

 

 

There are worse fates, he reminds himself, and when he finds a single half-wilted flower in his tent he puts it behind his ear; and when Zevran eyes it and smiles, it's almost half true.

**Author's Note:**

> tldr;  
> maroden: falling in love is a bad idea!  
> zevran: breathes  
> maroden: Fucking Shit


End file.
